“Advice”
A flash fiction story
A single knock pulled me from a lovely nap. I grumbled, got to my feet, and shuffled to the door.
A figure hidden by a black cloak stood silently before me. Despite plentiful sunshine, there was no face. In its bony hand — A glove? — was what looked like a scythe. It wasn’t Halloween.
“Uh, hi.”
No response from the figure, which lacked lower extremities. It looked like the figure was floating.
An illusion?
“Can I help you?”
A black void stared back at me.
“I sure don’t want a trick, but I also don’t think I have any candy.” I forced a smile.
Still no response. The figure wasn’t breathing as far as I could tell. There was a powerful odor — rotten, putrid. Smelled like death.
Is this Death? No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not in some horror movie. I’m obviously still asleep and dreaming.
The figure raised its free hand and pointed at me. Outside of an x-ray, I’d never seen any part of a skeleton before. Definitely not a glove.
What if I’m not dreaming?
I slapped my own face. Nothing changed. I didn’t wake up.
The cloaked figure continued to finger me like a suspect.
If I’m not dreaming, then . . .
The figure was still pointing. It looked like the finger was pointing at my armpit. Still no breathing. Still no speaking.
A chill shot down my back. Cold sweat followed. I could feel my heartbeat at my temples. I slapped myself again. No change. Reality began to dawn: I was awake, and Fear Number One stood before me.
“Are you here to take me away? Is it my time?”
The cloak’s hood rotated left, right, left, right. Slow, molasses-like. The black void continued to stare back.
“T-then, what?”
The pointing finger jerked in emphasis towards my armpit. I looked down, expecting some kind of wound. Nothing there except sweat.
“I . . . I don’t understand. What about my armpit? What’s wrong with it?” My breathing was shallow now. My pulse was racing. “Cancer? Is it cancer?”
The hood went left, right, left, right again. The figure raised the pointing finger so that it was now indicating something over my shoulder.
“Something behind me?”
Finally a nod from the hood, molasses-like.
I turned around and looked: just my messy living room. Nothing threatening. No one was there. I turned back to the cloaked figure. It was still pointing.
I followed the finger as I turned around again.
The couch?
I turned back to the figure and cleared my throat. “D-do you want to come in? Sit down?”
Another slow nod.
“OK, then.” I stepped aside and gestured for the figure to come inside.
Death — I guess — glided in as if on wheels.
Sit down? Death doesn’t sit. It doesn’t have legs, idiot.
I sat for several moments. Death stood silently across the coffee table.
Huh. Shorter than I expected. The scythe’s taller.
“So . . . ”
What do I say? Death — He? She? — probably doesn’t eat or drink.
“W-what can I do for you?”
Death used its free hand to produce a picture from its cloak, then placed the photo on the table.
“For me?”
The hood nodded.
I leaned forward and grabbed the photo. The photo was of a man on the beach. He had the requisite features of soap opera-handsomeness: athletic, thick dark hair, couple days’ stubble, mysterious eyes.
I looked up. “Who is this?”
Death pointed at itself.
“You? The man is you?”
The hood went left, right, left, right.
“Someone you know?”
The hood went up, down, up, down.
“Friend?”
Left, right.
“Your brother?”
Left, right.
“Your father?”
Left, right.
“But someone you know.”
Up, down.
Death’s shoulders seemed to slump.
Is Death sad? Is that possible?
“Is this who you’re supposed to . . . take away? His time is up?”
Up, down.
“But you feel bad about it? Sad, maybe?”
Up, down.
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
Death pointed at itself again. Pointed where a heart would be.
“Do you . . . care about this man?”
Up, down.
“Like . . . romantically?”
Up, down.
Holy hell.
“You’re in love?”
Up, down.
“And you’re conflicted about what you gotta do?”
Up, down.
I sat back in my chair, shocked.
Death pointed at me.
“And so you, what, need me?”
Up, down.
“My help?”
No reaction.
Hmm. Not quite.
“My . . . advice?
Up, down.
Death is asking me for advice?
“Does he know how you feel?”
Left, right.
“Does he even know you exist? I mean, romantically?”
Left, right.
I sighed and placed the photo on the table. “I’m not a therapist. I work in telecom. I’m an engineer. Words ain’t really my thing.”
Death pointed at me again.
“But you’re still asking me for advice.”
Up, down.
“I guess . . . uh . . . tell him how you feel. Tell him you love him.” I shrugged. “At least then he knows.”
Up, down, pointing at me.
“Oh . . . you want me to do that?”
Up, down.
“Like, right now?”
Up, down.
“What if I don’t?”
Left, right.
“No, I don’t have a choice? Or, no, there’s gonna be consequences?”
Left, right, then Death tamped down the scythe.
“Got it.”
A moment of awkward silence passed.
Do I stall?
“Maybe let’s work on the wording first. Or maybe brainstorm first, then wording.”
No reaction. Then: up, down.
“Let’s start with his name, I guess.”
Death pointed at the photo.
I picked it up and flipped it over: black writing. Looked like it was etched into the photo.
“Joshua Beauman.”
Up, down.
“Got it.”
I exhaled. “So . . . uh . . . ‘Joshua, you don’t know me’ . . . uh . . . ‘but I need to speak with you.’ ”
No reaction.
“I guess . . . just go for it, then.”
Up, down.
“Uh, OK . . . ‘Joshua, I’m Death, and I have feelings for you.’ ”
Up, down.
“ ‘And’ . . . uh . . . ‘but I also have a job — ’ no ‘ — duty as Death, and your time has come.’ ”
Up, down.
“ ‘Maybe we could . . . get coffee sometime and talk it over . . .? ’ ”
Up, down.
“Yeah, I guess that could work.”
Up, down.
“A bit grim, though. Don’tcha think?”
